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help it, if I cry my eyes out: if I down on my knees, stiff as one of them is with the rheumatiz, it won't argufy nothing. Lord help me; what's the use of an old woman's advice now-a-days? The world will wag it's own way, starve or thrive-peace or war-money or no money—it's all a one, as I see."

Susan now closed the door, and soon returned with my trifling necessaries. A pedes trian traveller needs little equipment; one change of linen suffices my wants in general; for I always find sufficient amusement in every village, while my rustic laundress bleaches, on some hedge, my Sunday shirt and cravat. But, in my former travels, having been often wet to my skin, I now determined to prevent that inconvenience, by purchasing myself a complete oil-skin dress; as its utility, compared with its trifling weight, when pendant in my satchel, would add very little to the burthen I am ever doomed to carry; and how far more honourable is it, to become an outward, than an inward porter! For, whether we bear in our bosoms a weighty conscience, a mind ponderous with iniquity, or a burden on our shoulders; we are still, literally, all porters, in this world: though he who bears the heaviest load on his back, feels it only a feather-weight, compared to the ponderosity of heart that oppresses the apparently disencumbered son of luxurious inde pendence!

Previous to my departure, Susan requested a day's pleasure: adding, she had the offer of a ticket for the play, an amusement she had not partaken of for fifteen years; and as it would cost her nothing, she had determined to accept the invitation, with my permission.

No sooner was it granted, and my breakfast finished, than off set Susan to Battersea; tricked

out in her best black russet, and her piony chintz; with her stiff-starched Ghenting apron and handkerchief, and a double plaited coif projecting four inches beyond the edge of a small bonnet; while, round her throat, hung a dozen nooses of black ribbon, dangling like a cluster of leeches; her rosy cheeks varnished with soapy polish, and a straggling skein of glossy hair divided on her forehead."

Thus equipped, she bustled into the parlour, to display her pageantry.

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"So," said I, "the yellow soosce, and the neat half-inch check, are thrown aside to-day?" "Lauk-a-daisy, to be sure!" answered she; one does not take pleasure every day." "God grant you merry, and happy, Susan!" "Thank you, Sir, I shall be at home in good time, as soon as the play ends!" and off she whisked as agile as a squirrel.

Now, reader, I must intrude on your patience, while I relate the pleasure Susan experienced: which, having anticipated all night, had deprived her of sleeping; neither had she tasted an ounce of breakfast. In this flurry of promised delight, she set off; and, having ran herself out of breath, just arrived, to a moment, for a snug seat on the box of the Battersea coach, the dri

ver of which had promised her a ride gratis. Dripping with heat, and smothered in dust, she had nearly reached her destination; when a sudden jolt in the road, stopping the fore-wheel, jerked her off in a quick-set-hedge, and the coach was with difficulty saved from overturning.

The shrieks of Susan soon brought her assistance from the passengers; who raising her from the entanglenient of the briars, discovered her face woefully lacerated by the thorns, and covered with blood!-the poor, dear, treasured apron and handkerchief rent in shivers; while her cap and bonnet were left dangling on the hedge.

In this cruel plight, she was humanely con veyed to the house of her friend; the burning tears of vexation flowing down the relics of her tattered finery: and it was not before a cup of ale had enlivened and revived her spirits, that she began to reflect it was a mercy she escaped with whole limbs. At length, after planning how she could make the best of her misfortune, by converting the ragged remnants into capborders, &c. and having well sluiced her wounded face with brandy, and adorned the deepest scars with sticking-plaister, in nine different directions; the poor maimed, pleasurehunter, again set off, nothing discouraged, with her friends, to the little theatre in the Hay-market: first treating herself with a walk from Battersea to the gallery-door; in ascending to which region, she lost one of her shoes, among a violent crowd, that left her panting for respiration at the top of the stairs, and vo ciferating, in broken squalls, for her new calimanco shoe, bound with scarlet, and a square silver buckle without corners.

In vain she begged every body to search hibiting so droll an aspect, that an univerfor it-her poor, patched, scarlet face, exsal laugh of reprobation, alone answered her; and after waiting a full half-hour, and searching every nook and corner, she was obliged to submit to have her foot tied up in a pocket handkerchief, and patiently take her seat on the back-row, behind a very tail, fat butcher, who totally precluded all possible view of the stage; every other seat being eagerly filled, while she had been hunting on the stairs.

Mortified to the quick, by the jeers of the gods and goddesses, on the loss of the scarfet-bound calimanco shoe, and the square buckle without corners, poor Susan could be literally said to enjoy nothing but heat and effluvia; which overpowered her to so eminent a degree, that sick and ill, she was obliged to go out for air.

She had sat fanning herself several minutes, with a handful of her gown-tail, in the passage; when, in an obscure corner, she espied something glitter; and, to her great joy, found her poor buckle, smashed to pieces; but no tatter of her shoe. Folding it up, with an intention of sccuring it in her

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chintz.

Susan now earnestly entreated to go home, though she had neither heard or seen any more of the play than if she had been in Jamaica; for her perpetual disasters had kept her in full employ:" and, when she reached the street, she found her evening's pleasure was to close with a bare-foot tramp home, in a thunder-storm!

No coach was attainable--the rain beat in torrents—the thunder growled the light ning flashed—and Susan, terrified beyond description, found no alternative, but to wrap her gown over her head, grease or no grease; and, with her muffled foot, and stockings dripping wet to the calves of her legs, to pace home as fast as possible.

Judge, reader, when her furious_rap_demanded admittance at my door-judge, how the votary of pleasure made her entree; while her disconcerted companions explained the disastrous tale!

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Such is pleasure !-so alluring its prospect -yet, often, so ultimately deceitful! Susan little dreamed of the labyrinth in which it ensnared her. But, when she found its pursuit so injurious, both to her health and pocket, she wisely observed, that she was convinced it was better to stay at home and get money, than to gad abroad and lose it: and, henceforth," said she, "I never will say, I am determined to-morrow shall be a day of pleasure, because as how I never suffered such a day of troubles and accidencies in my life; and, I'm sure, I shall be more happier, for the future, in my half-inch check, as master calls it, than stuck out at the devilsh playhouse, in my fine white Ghenting! Mayhap, it was judgmint upon me, for being so flaunty."

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PERFECTION. Where is the man, says the World, that can pretend to perfection? The World should first tell us, what is the perfection of man. Is it to have conquered the degrading passions?-To be void of avarice, envy, revenge, and pride?—To be brave, faithful, benevolent, and aspiring? To exalt the rational faculty to a knowledge of the Deity? To trace Divinity in the precepts of Christianity?-Then, let the World scoff at preten sions as it may, I will not think so ill of mankind as not to believe that there are many entitled to the praise of attaining the perfection of their nature.

LIBERALITY AND GENEROSITY.-I wonder that no dictionary should mark the difference between liberality and generosity. I would contine the sense of the latter to the temper and sentiments. We often see great liberality without a grain of generosity.

A COMPARISON.-It is with narrow-souled people, as with narrow-necked bottles-the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring it out.

FRIENDSHIP.-Real friends are like ghosts and apparitions--what many people talk of, but few ever saw.

A TRUE AXIOM-Nobility may be without merit, as well as merit without nobility.

Trifles.

LOVE BELOW STAIRS.

Dost ask when love's a happy fellow?
Him when passion most is rich in!
"Tis when tippling in the cellar,
Or when feasting in the kitchen.

The cook and butler are his minions,
With ruby nose and arms a-kimbo:
With the one he wets his pinions,
With the other lights his flambeau.

ON A VERY SHORT LADY, ACCUSED OF PRIDE.

"She's vastly proud," I've heard you cry, But you must be in fun; For does she not (in truth reply)

Look up to ev'ry one?

62

ON HER SECRECY.

"She's secret as the Grave! allow."
I do; I cannot doubt it;

But 'tis a Grave with tombstone on,
That tells you all about it!

ON HEARING OF A GENTLEMAN's POCKET BEING PICKED OF HIS WATCH.

He that a watch would wear, just thus must do,-
Pocket his watch, and watch his pocket too.

OUT OF SPIRITS.

"Is my wife out of spirits?" said John, with a sigh,

As her voice of a tempest gave warning: "Quite out, Sir, indeed," said her maid in reply, "For she finish'd the brandy this morning!"

THE HEN-PECKED DANDY.

The Demon of Fashion Sir Fopling bewitches-
The reason his Lady betrays-

For as she is resolved upon wearing the breeches,
In revenge he has taken the stays.

Verses.

HUMAN LIFE,

BY SAMUEL ROCERS, ESQ.

[We cannot give a more favourable notice of this chaste and beautiful work than by extracting the few first verses, which so accurately, yet briefly describe the history of man, from the. cradle to the grave.]

The Lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The Bees have humm'd their noon-tide lullaby.
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Lewellen Hall the jests resound:
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breath their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The Babe, the sleeping image of his Sire.

A few short years-and then these sounds shall
hail

The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.

Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin;
The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine:
And basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled,
""Twas on these knees so oft he sate and smiled."

And soon again shall music swell the breeze:
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung.
And violets scatter'd round; and old and young,
In every cottage-porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;
While her dark eyes declining, by his side
Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride.

And once, alas, not in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen.
And weepings heard where only joy had been ;
When by his children borne, and from his door
Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

And such is Human Life; so gliding on,
It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!

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To her the noblest attributes of Heav'n,
Ambition, valour, eloquence, are giv'n;
She binds the Soldier's brow with wreaths sub-
lime;

From her expanding Reason learns to climb;
To her the sounds of melody belong;
She wakes the raptures of the Poet's song;-
"Tis god-like Freedom bids each passion live
That truth may boast, or patriot virtue give;
From her the Arts enlighten'd splendour own,
She guides the Peasant, and adorns the Throne;
To mild Philanthrophy extends her hand,
Gives Truth pre-eminence, and Worth command;
Her eye direets the path that leads to Fame,
Lights Valour's torch, and trims the glorious

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How gay was its foliage, how bright was its hue,
How it scented the breeze that blew round it;
How carelessly sweet in the valley it grew,
'Till the blight of the mildew had found it.

Now faded, forlorn, scarce the wreck of its charms.

Remain e'en for Fancy's renewing;

Its branches are bare, like its thorny alarms,
And it lies the pale victim of ruin.

Discontent is the mildew that feeds on the mind,
That robs the warm cheek of its roses;
That cankers the breast of the rude or refin'd,
Where'er it a moment reposes.

Tis a wizard, whose touch withers beauty away,
And denies every pleasure to blossom:
Insidiously creeps to the heart of its prey,
And invites cold despair to the bosom.

THE LAST TEAR.

She had done weeping, but her eyelash yet
Lay silken heavy on her lilied cheek,
And on its fringe a tear, like a lone star
Shining upon the rich and hyacinth skirts
O' the western cloud that veils the April even.
The veil rose up, and with it rose the star,
Glitt'ring above the gleam of tender blue,
That widen'd as the show'r clears off from Heav'n.
Her beauty woke-a sudden beam of soul
Flash'd from her eye, and lit the vestal's cheek
Into one crimson, and exhaled the tear.

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The wild-wood songs I send thee here,
Songs of that country ever dear,
Haply may wake one thought of me,
When far, far distant I shall be.

O never o'er Sicilian seas

Were wafted sweeter strains than these,

And never did Sicilian measure

Rouse such deep thrills of grief or pleasure.

These breathings' of the native mind,
Uncultur'd-strange-yet chaste-refin'd,
Speak to the soul with magic skill,
And bend the passions to their will.
But Irish hearts alone can tell

The thoughts that in the bosom swell,
Or gay, or sad-yet ever dear,
As floats this music on the ear.
Touch but the chord-the present flies,
Visions of faded days arise,

Of days that can return no more,
Of hopes and fears for ever o'er.

When in our weary wand'rings here
Remembrances like those appear,

As the soft sun through April showers,
They gleam upon life's shadowy hours.

Then take these Songs-in happier climes
They'll tell of half-forgotten times,
Pointing the eye of memory
To home-to early friends-and me.

PITY.

ISABEL.

How lovely in the arch of Heaven
Appears yon sinking Orb of light,
As, darting through the clouds of even,

It gilds the rising shades of night!
Yet brighter, fairer, shines the tear
That trickles o'er misfortune's bier!
Sweet is the murmur of the gale

That whispers thro' the summer's grove; Soft is the tone of friendship's tale, And softer still the voice of love; Yet softer far the tears that flow, To mourn to soothe another's woe, Richer than richest diadem

That glitters on the Monarch's brow; Purer than ocean's purest gem,

Or all that wealth or art can showThe drop that swells in Pity's eye, The pearl of sensibility!

Is there a spark, in earthly mould, Fraught with one ray of heavenly fire! Does man one trait of virtue hold,

That even angels must admire ? That spark is Pity's radiant glow; That trait-the tear for others' woe! Let false philosophy decry

The noblest feeling of the mind;
Let wretched sophists madly try

To prove a pleasure more refin'd,-
They only strive in vain to steal
The tenderness they cannot feel!
To sink in Nature's last decay,
Without a friend to mourn the fall-
To mark its embers die away,

Deplor'd by none—unwept by all-
This, this is sorrow's deadliest curse,
Nor hate, nor hell can form a worse!
Take wealth-I know its fleeting worth ;
Take honour-it will pass away;
Take pow'r-I scorn the bounded earth;
Take pomp-its trappings soon decay;
But spare me, grant me Pity's tear,
To soothe my woe-and mourn my bier!

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MONODY.

Written on the demise of a whole family of Guinea Pigs belonging to a Young Lady.(^)

Ah! death has run such precious rigs
Among Miss Mary's Guinea Pigs,

A murrain seize the glutton!
Sir Pig,(B) the most discreet and wise,
My Lady Pig, of piercing eyes,
The Messieurs Pig, of sundry size,

Are all as dead-as mutton!
Peace to the pork!(c) in slumbers sound-
In everlasting doze profound,

They mingle with the dust;

No more the Knight shall look so sleek,
No more my Lady's pipe shall squeak,
No more their little ones, so meek,
Shall each beholder's praise bespeak;
They died-as others must!
Now then, O Muse! but just relate,
This family's untimely fate,

And death's relentless ravages;
His victims, eager for a lunch→→→
All unsuspicious, dared to munch
A, fatally, too ponderous bunch

Of John's best winter cabbages.
Ah! luckless lunch! destructive food,
These sprigs of swinish multitude

Did sorely rue they took it ;It serv'd them such a scurvy trick, Their Pigships one and all fell sick

In short-THEY KICK'D THE BUCKET! NOTES (A) As poets out of number have bemonodized (Í like to coin my own expressions) dogs, cats, and birds, there is no reason why a Guinea Pig is not entitled to the same privilege.

(B) It may be necessary to observe, by way of explanation, that these " grunting revellers" had, from their earliest infancy, been distinguished (through the whim or caprice of their protectress) by the titles of Sir, My Lady, &c.

"Peace to the Pork, (c) - an acknowledged plagiarism from the pathetic song of "Peace to the Brave!"

MR. GARRICK

Sent the following Lines to a Nobleman who asked him if he did not intend being in Parliament.

More than content with what my labors gain,
Of public favor, though, a little vain;

Yet not so vain my mind, so madly bent,

To play the fool in Parliament.
In each dramatic unity to err,

Mistaking time, and place, and character;
Were it my fate to quit the mimic art,
I'd "strut and fret" no more in any part;
No more in public scenes would I engage,
Or wear the oap and mask on any stage.

Printed and Published for the Proprietors, by J. WHITE, 41, Holywell-street, and may be had of all Booksellers.

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